


Hello, John, I'm home

by niro26



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-The Reichenbach Fall, Sherlock Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 22:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/997431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/niro26/pseuds/niro26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finally returns after a long period of time. And the place he wants to go is back home. Perhaps everything won't be the same as what he would imagine when he finally sees John. </p><p>Reunion fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, John, I'm home

Sherlock had finally managed to finish the last sniper, Moran. He deemed himself to have self-control, as he had only rendered the man unconscious and bound him. Well, he had also pinned and exposed some of his crimes that are just enough to be locked away for life, just to be safe. Although, this process of having to confront the criminal upfront had managed to attain him several cracked ribs. He had self-accessed himself before deciding illogically that he should return home instead of seeking for medical help.

 

Back to John at 221B Baker Street.

 

He hailed for a cab as he texted Mycroft and Lestrade to inform them about his finished work. Both of them knew he was alive and despite Sherlock's denial, he needed them to be able to dismantle Moriarty's network. It was vast and spread out like a sticky spider web; it took him three full years before he could go home. Just a day before, he had more than grudgingly requested Mycroft to inform Mrs Hudson about his return. He hated to be relying on his brother so much but he wouldn't want his dear landlady to have a heart attack.

 

According to Mycroft, it had seemed that she had taken the news of his quite well, as she usually would have. After all, Mrs Hudson seems to be not surprised that Sherlock had the capability to pull out any tricks, even if it's rising from the dead. Secretly in his heart, he had been very grateful that she treated him as equal. He caught his brain to stop wandering to unnecessary areas.

 

Mycroft had also asked if Sherlock wanted to pre-inform John about his return, but he wanted to have a surprise for his friend. So, he had dismissed the offer with a wave of hand, despite Mycroft’s warning of John’s nature.

 

After telling the cab driver the address, he carefully leaned back on the hard leather seat, as to not jostle his ribs. Despite the act he put up, every bump on the road made him flinched from the pain. Either the cabbie didn't notice or he didn't bother to ask, the trip was filled with silence. He was grateful for the silence for now; he wanted to save all his breath for his explanation later. Not that it’s because of his breathless state. He pulled his grey cap lower and imagined his reunion with John.

 

Sherlock, being himself, deduced that John would be angry and then later, forgiving. John was the same every time they had an argument. He sincerely hoped that John hadn’t changed much. He found himself slightly smiling at the fact that he would be able to see John face to face after a three-year period, and not from CCTV tapes that Mycroft had sent him.

 

Of course the years weren't as luxurious or fabulous as anyone would have thought, and Sherlock had faint, pink scars scattered across his body to prove it. His pale skin contrasted against the hardship he had gone throughout the years. He had purposely worn a long coat today to cover these up. He knew that it was most likely for John to be fussing over his state of health and he couldn't deny that those weren’t all that annoying as he made them seem to look like.

 

The chilly weather had helped to cover the suspicion of wearing both a long-sleeved shirt and a trench coat. He looked exactly like himself three years prior before his fall. Only his ever presence scarf was tucked neatly inside his coat pocket. His clothes were a bit worn out, having to only have the ability to switch between small selections of fashion anyways. Honestly, who would really care about fashion when you’re needed to be up and about chasing criminals around the world?

 

Now that everything was cleared up, he was able to dress like himself again. Sherlock had no longer continued to dye his hair and he grew his hair back out. He remembered the times he had to change his hair colour three times in a week’s time. At one point, he had decided he had to cut his curls short. He had really, genuinely, looked forward for this day for a very long time.

 

The cab ride had seemed to take years but in reality, it only took an hour. Sherlock felt like a child once again, his fingers clenched tightly together, forming red crescents inside his hands. Being nervous, Sherlock pondered, such a humane feature. His knuckles were white and his hands would have angry-looking welts later but he didn't mind. Not that anything really matters now that he was going to see _John_ soon.

 

"We've reached." The cabbie’s gruff voice sounded throughout the tight-spaced cab. Sherlock dug around his pocket for some cash and he placed them on the waiting, outstretched hand. The cab driver turned over immediately to look for change.

 

"Keep the change." Sherlock muttered and out the cab he went.

 

He shuffled and recomposed himself on the doorstep before fishing out his keys and unlocked the door. He quietly walked inside, looking around for the landlady's presence. Yet all he found was a sticky note stuck on the table. It was yellow and was left since yesterday, Sherlock deduced. It seems that Mrs Hudson wanted to give them both some personal time.

 

'Gone out to visit. Welcome home x'

 

Her short message left yet another small smile at his face. Oh, he was such a sentimental person today. And with such a thought, he put on his stoic face again, despite his heart thumping loudly from excitement. John seemed to be influencing him into being an emotional human. Letting his human side out from the prison he had locked them in.

 

As silently as possible while walking up the stairs, he had come up with many ideas of different scenarios about their meeting. He couldn't walk fast and being silent on stair case took quite a toll on his injuries as he could feel his painful breaths trembled slightly once he reached his destination.

He had almost hesitated again, but he managed to quickly allow his gloved hands to push open the door gently. His blue with yellow specks eyes darted around the room to look for a familiar figure. Obviously he knew that John had moved out, being unable to stay in the same place, but he wanted to try his luck upon seeing him today.

 

And since when he have based events on luck? Of course Mycroft had told him beforehand that John was coming here today, Sherlock corrected himself.

 

"John?" And there goes said person, who was sitting on Sherlock's armchair.

 

Everything was still in place, Sherlock observed. His violin was still untouched on its original spot, in the open case, having been coated with dust. The skull, his 'old-friend', was surprisingly on the mantle. Every single thing was in fact, the same as the time when he left. Perhaps Sherlock had underestimated John's grief; he had hoped that the smaller man would be able to move on even though he had selfishly wanted him to remember the supposedly dead man.

 

John turned around to face Sherlock, and to Sherlock's surprise, he started to chuckle hysterically. It wasn’t immediate chuckling, as John had furrowed his eyebrows and squinted a bit first. After he managed to control his laughter, he spoke up. His eyes were at Sherlock's direction, yet they were not looking at him as well. It was like he was looking through the consulting detective. As if he was a ghost.

 

"Oh dear  _god_ , I might have escalated from imaginary voices of you until even your image now. Perhaps I should go to a psychologist instead of my therapist anymore." It was then Sherlock had actually noticed the cane was back at the doctor's side. "Why hello, Sherlock, it was nice to meet you here. Perhaps I have died from an accident and I'm in my afterlife now."

 

Sherlock frowned deeply, and he stepped towards John. Each steps were painful, and he knew he should have seek for medical treatment before coming to John but the idea of John just made his adrenaline go skyrocketing again.

 

He wasn't a man of usual physical touches, but the state of which John is currently in sent butterflies flying in his pit of stomach. He was worried, and he needed to prove to John that he was real. And that he was alive. He was really right here now, this current flow of time, with John.

 

"John?" He asked softly again, lightly grabbing the sides of John's arms. "John, look at me. I'm back. I'm back, and I'm not dead. I'm real." No, no, he wasn't going to let John become deranged as soon as he comes back. He just needed to explain to him, and then everything would be fi-

 

Thump. It took Sherlock some moments before he realised that he was punched by John and he was sprawled on his back, on the floor. It took him another few moments before feeling the sharp pain on his chest to indicate that John had punched him at the chest instead of the face. That’s new, he thought. It wasn't a particularly strong punch, but it wasn't a light one either. His cracked ribs decided that it was enough force to send them breaking.

 

It took Sherlock forever to control his need to groan and wheeze. He only barely managed to conceal them as coughing from the knocking out of wind. He brought his hand up to cover his coughs and grimaced slightly when he pulled his hand away from his mouth. He quickly clenched his fist and looked up towards the army doctor.

 

John looked absolutely furious and his ears were red. Sherlock had the most inappropriate time to imagine steam coming out of his ears before mentally shaking his head to clear the image. He opened his mouth to talk but John started first.

 

"What is it then? Three years, Sherlock. Three bloody years. Did you know how much had I grieved for you? I placed sodding flowers on your damn headstone, Sherlock Holmes. Do you know how much it hurts when my therapist continued to tell me that you were dead? Why couldn't you just tell me, was it really that hard to, maybe, call or send a text? Oh no, I have to be 'dead' for three years and come back partying and oh yes, John would forgive me in a split second. We'll be back in Lala-land and everything would be fine. You think you’re so clever, but you’re a child at heart."

 

Sherlock continued to stare silently as the doctor fumed away.

 

"No, Sherlock, nothing works that way. Absolutely nothing. You do _not_ come back to a grieving  _friend_  and think that all would be alright. Did you know how I felt when you just bloody said, ‘Good bye, John.’? In fact, I'm leaving now. So bugger off and don’t come finding me."

 

John did as he said. He picked up his jumper from the arm of the chair and stormed across the room to the door. Sherlock panicked and he quickly stood up, ignoring the sudden dizziness that hit him hard. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, and the pain flared up in his chest again. He had to explain to John.

 

"J-John?" He nearly sobbed out his name, and he cursed himself. John didn’t seem to have heard his stutter. All he needed now was John to stay for a few more seconds, "John, don't leave. Let me explain. Please."

 

Sherlock's use of 'please' made John pause in his tracks, but not enough to turn around. Even when Sherlock let out a long string of harsh coughing, he didn't change his mind. Sherlock needed to learn that not everyone could be as lack of human emotions as him. John was about to continue his depart when the sound that made him turn around was the abrupt stop of wet, hacking coughs and the heavy sound of 'thud'. He spun so quickly on his heels that he had almost gotten dizzy himself.

What he saw almost made him have a heart attack.

 

Sherlock was lying on his side, unconscious as his chest barely rising up and down. There were wheezes when he breathed in and out. His arms were limped in front of him and his right hand was unclenched and a red stain present was so striking against his pale skin. And there was this one thin, steady trail of blood trailing down his cheek from his mouth that sent John skidding towards the unmoving body.

 

"Sherlock?" His voice broke at the end.

 

“Oh god, Sherlock. What happened?” John voiced out his worry while he quickly accessed Sherlock’s situation. As his hands lightly touched his chest, he could feel movements in his ribs. The grating sound and Sherlock’s unconscious groan further proved his points. His two, no, three ribs were broken and had more than likely scraped into his lungs, resulting in Sherlock’s coughing of blood.

 

How could he have not noticed it earlier? Sherlock had looked so much paler than his usual self, there were beads of sweat on his forehead, the way he carried himself and how he had hacked up wet coughs. He was a doctor, he’s supposed to recognise the signs but his anger had taken the better of him.

 

Oh god, and he punched him in the chest earlier. He must have broken his ribs with his fists. John was an army doctor, but he did train for the army before he went into war in Afghanistan. He had wanted to punch him in the face, but somehow he didn’t want to deal with Sherlock’s bloody nose, so he had punched him in the chest enough to bruise. Yet this had just made things worse.

 

“Sherlock?” John continued to call, but he didn’t dare to touch him, for fear it would aggravate his wounds.

 

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered to a half-opened state, though his eyes weren’t clear and alert. It was a pair of pain-filled eyes and John is suddenly so afraid instead of angry. He had never once made it obvious that he was in pain, this sudden slip up of his stoic figure made him seem so vulnerable. John had built up this image of Sherlock being so strong and independent that this slip up was swaying it away, ready to collapse anytime.

 

“Jo…hn…” It took him so much energy to even whisper John’s name. He could feel the waves of darkness and pain crashing over and over again on him. It was like he was drowning in the river of Thames. John seemed to have heard his whisper because he had leaned towards Sherlock a bit more.

 

“I… needed to protect you. From… Moriarty’s sniper…” He was wheezing by now, each breath he took had gotten shallower and shallower, as it took him more effort to breath in the sweet, precious oxygen. It made him panicked, and it didn’t help him much that he was panicking about his lack of breath. It felt like a sharp rock sitting on top of Sherlock.

 

“I’m… sorry. So sorry… Sorry…” Sherlock kept repeating his apologies, each one getting softer and softer. John shockingly noticed there was transparent trail of tear leaking from the sides of Sherlock’s eyes as they seem to be drooping. John held the man’s hands but he didn’t know what to say. Sherlock was actually apologising to someone, to him. Oh but his hands are so cold, so freezing, like an ice cube.

 

What should he do? Should he call out for help or-

 

It was then realisation struck him that he had his mobile phone with him. John quickly dialled the hospital’s number, but for that split second, he hesitated. Instead he quickly looked for Mycroft’s name on his contacts and he pressed ‘call’. The call got through almost immediately and he felt a slight relief hearing Mycroft’s voice through the speaker.

 

“Mycroft, Sherlock’s passed out. His ribs are broken and ah, I don’t think he would appreciate waking up in the hospital.” John didn’t even mention that perhaps Sherlock won’t wake up at all. He couldn’t bear the thought of a second death of Sherlock. This time, it’ll be permanent.

 

“Noted. My men are on the way.” Although it was merely a few words, John could hear the lace of worry in it. He was right about Mycroft genuinely cared about his little brother then. Despite both of their retorts and harsh words, they still had the same blood that course through their veins.

 

John tightly secured Sherlock’s hands in his, afraid to let go. He quickly checked his breathing again, both disappointed and relieved that he could feel shallow breaths. His pulse was weak and fluttery, John wasn’t sure if he could stay that way for long. He kept whispering quiet, mumbling words to reassure the younger man, even if he couldn’t listen anymore. It was as if he was reassuring himself more than the other.

 

“It’s fine, Sherlock. Just relax, just relax. It’ll be alright.”

 

The thumping of his heart and the soft breathing sounds of Sherlock was the only noise present in the messy room. He anxiously tried to calm down as he looked at the wallpaper. The yellow painted smiley stayed there, reminding him and taunting about Sherlock. It seemed to purposely smile so sweetly, contrasting the mood and his situation.

 

It was five full minutes before a luxurious black car had parked itself right in front of 221B. John hadn’t seemed to notice anything, only when Mycroft gently pulled his hands away from Sherlock’s, he had resisted. It took Mycroft some moments, but he managed to convince John that his brother was in good hands.

 

They had quickly boarded the car and drove to a private hospital, where Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea had pre-arranged it earlier. The A&E doctors and nurses had immediately attended to them, wasting no time once they stepped foot into the hospital.

 

John was stopped before he could enter the operation room. A nurse had kindly asked him to sit down at the waiting room. He nervously sat down on the blue plastic chair as he clenched and unclenched his hands. It was one of his habits when he was nervous or thinking. He wasn’t aware of his habit but as usual, Sherlock pointed it out to him.

 

Mycroft left, though not as soon as John had expected. He left after one hour, when he had received a phone call and urgently rushed away as he told John that he trusts him to take care of Sherlock. John barely nodded before the important man went away to attend to his work. John was even quite surprised that Mycroft came by foot with his men.

 

Really, those brothers have a way of brotherhood, don’t they?

 

John wasn’t sure how long it was, but it felt like years before the same nurse came back to inform him that Sherlock was now up for visitors. He gingerly walked into the room and took a look at the sleeping man. He was hooked up with lines, and he looked so fragile. John frowned in guilt as he dragged the armchair towards the bed.

 

Sherlock didn’t make any moves to indicate that he was conscious but John held the taller man’s hand nonetheless. He brushed his thumb and quietly whispered his apologies to Sherlock. He wasn’t sure if he heard it or not, but he’ll apologise again once he had woken up.

 

John had heard about the reason Sherlock was ‘dead’ for three years from Mycroft earlier, and the guilt inside him welled up. He wasn’t so sure about forgiving himself for his rash actions, but he was sure that he had definitely forgiven Sherlock. For all the things that he had given up, for everything he had done. All John was afraid of was that they wouldn’t be able to return to normal but they had time on their side. This time, he wasn’t going to let Sherlock go anywhere without him anymore. They might not be the same, but they’ll still be the Consulting Detective and his faithful blogger.

 

Unknown to him, Sherlock’s fingers twitched a little in John’s hands.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story is rather focused on hurt/comfort in my opinion, but I am unsure if it is categorised under physical or emotional. I have also posted an earlier version of this in fanfiction.net
> 
> I hope you enjoy my first fan fiction while I cruise away to watch the first episode of SPN season nine and quietly grow old waiting for season three of Sherlock.


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